


The Last Place That Is Home

by Houseofhaleth



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Easterlings - Freeform, Edain, Gen, House of Hador
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-15 18:46:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1315369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Houseofhaleth/pseuds/Houseofhaleth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aerin, captured wife of Brodda the Easterling, risks a lot to take food to Morwen. (Aerin is in a forced marriage with Brodda - nothing explicitly mentioned, but felt I should point that out just in case. There’s rape and abuse going on in her life even if it’s not described here.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Place That Is Home

Her husband was drunk. This was a fairy common occurrence. Brodda was angry, frustrated and scared – so he drank, nightly. Usually Aerin encouraged this – she encouraged anything that might end in him slumped semi-conscious over the table, meaning she could have the bed to herself. Tonight she was more than encouraging it. She had a jar of the strongest, roughest liquor she could find, and was refilling Brodda’s tankard every time he swayed in her direction. Already his dark eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, and his laughter was like a dying horse. He’d had three quarters of the jar on his own, and she was mildly surprised he could still hold his head upright. He was going to be painfully sick in the morning.

  Most had either been dragged off to bed by now, or slumped around the table. All of _her_ people had made themselves scarce. Brodda still insisted she come to the table every night – _you are my wife, I give you a place at my side, you will not dishonour me by refusing it._ But now – Brodda’s head was flopping at an uncomfortable angle, and the liquor was spilling unheeded over his knees – she judged it safe to leave the hall.

  She put the jar on the table in front of him as she walked out, though.

*****

  The night air was cold. When Dor-lómin belonged to the House of Hador, by this time people would be inside, either in bed or huddled around fires. The Easterlings were mostly doing that now too, although for the first few years they’d struggled – evening was the most productive time, full of good cool hours – no time for sleeping.

  But Dor-lómin was more than cool. Soon there would be snow. Probably this year none of them would freeze to death. They were adjusting. They would have adjusted quicker, but Brodda kept shouting that they were Easterlings, not thralls, and Morgoth himself could see Easterling culture is superior – he chose us! We must not lose what we are and become like them!

  His youngest brother, drunk one mid-winter’s evening, sat down in the snow on his way home from the hall – and hadn’t got up again. Brodda raged against northern winters – then said, they were a practical people. They would take these long nights, and this snow, and make them their own – they would fill the nights with their music, and train to fight in the snow.

  It wasn’t snowing yet, but it would soon. In many ways, it was easier to get out at this time of year – there were fewer people who’d notice. On the other hand, she had to get through the cold on her own. She was no more immune to it than they were.

  She rounded the corner of a house, and leapt back in shock. Someone was finishing off stretching out a wolf pelt over a large frame, beside a fire she’d made. The woman looked up. ‘Aerin,’ she said, in surprise. ‘What are you doing out?’

  Aerin had become very good at thinking fast. ‘Checking Vargan got home safely,’ she said. ‘Did you see him go in?’

  Udrun’s dark eyes softened. She straightened, with a wince – her child would be born in midwinter (which they all muttered was bad luck). ‘He’s home. You should be too,’ she said. Aerin nodded, reluctantly. ‘How’s Brodda tonight?’ Udrun asked.

  Aerin saw no point in lying. ‘Dead drunk.’ Udrun nodded, without surprise.

  ‘Being asked for soldiers in winter is hard.’

  They’d probably thought they were safe. Yes, they had their fertile land – but it wasn’t theirs like they’d been promised. It was Morgoth’s, and he still demanded their sons for war. In the beginning, there had been toasts to the mighty arising one, to our Lord and Benefactor, until Aerin had to bite down on her lip and pinch herself until she bruised, rather than scream.

  They didn’t do that any more. Udrun’s husband had gone to join Morgoth’s hosts. She would have gone with him – she was an excellent archer, they all said - but she was too heavy with child.

  ‘I’ll…return, then,’ said Aerin, plotting a path that would get her past Udrun unseen.

  ‘Aerin,’ she said. ‘Listen, I know…listen, Brodda wasn’t always like this. He’s not…he would have been a good husband, once.’

  Aerin gaped at her – only the sheer ridiculousness of this kept her from laughing in Udrun’s face. _He’s no husband at all._

Udrun rested a hand on her growing bump. ‘He would have treated you like an Easterling woman, if it weren’t for…you could have been his equal, a co-warrior, not a thrall in the house like your Edain women are kept,’ she said. Her expression was full of pity – not because her kinsman had taken Aerin into his bed against her will, but because she was Edain, the poor thing – of _course_ wedding an Easterling was better for her.

  She took a step away. ‘I must go, Brodda will…’ another step, and she turned, and vanished between buildings.

*****

The penalty for stealing food would be a beating – and a hard one. It wouldn’t just be Brodda’s hand, as if she’d answered him back or spilled hot food in his lap – it would be a belt, or a stick. And it would be in public, in front of the other Hadorians (as a warning, supposedly) and the Easterlings (to shame her, supposedly). She’d never had such a punishment, but when Eilwen had been caught stealing food, they beat her so hard she couldn’t move for a week.

  The punishment for sneaking out at night would be even worse. More than anything though, it would draw Brodda’s attention.

  She took the sack of food from where she’d had people hide it, and set out. It was a risk – but not one she was about to stop taking.

*****

  The whole house was dark, and Aerin was momentarily terrified that something had happened – had Morwen fled?

  The door opened in the middle of the second bout of knocking. Morwen stood with a lantern, looking even thinner than last time. ‘Get in,’ she said, pulling Aerin by the arm and closing the door behind her. ‘I _told_ you last time you weren’t to come ag – Aerin, you’re freezing!!’

  Aerin shuffled towards the fire, noting the thick cloth covering the windows, to block firelight from the outside world. That was a good idea. This had been her strategy too, all this time – try to make them forget you exist.

  A blanket landed around her shoulders. ‘You’re not to come again. I mean it, I won’t open the door,’ Morwen threatened.

  ‘Yes you will.’

  ‘It’s too much of a risk for you-’

  ‘What did you eat today?’ Aerin asked, rubbing her numb feet – her toes were prickling in the warmth. Morwen totally ignored her, looking into the bag she’d brought.

  ‘Is this – they’ll notice a whole cooked chicken gone!’

  ‘It’s yours. They took it from your henhouse.’

  ‘That’s not the point! You think I can live with it if they beat you on my account?’

  ‘You think I can live with it if you starve while I’m sat on a pile of food?’ Aerin shot back, suddenly hot right through despite the cold. ‘You can’t stop me coming.’

  Her shoulders were rigid under the blanket, waiting for Morwen to argue back. But instead, Morwen sat close beside her, and put an arm around her shoulders. She could feel herself slowly relaxing, almost against her will. Morwen didn’t ask if she was alright, or anything stupid like that – she just squeezed her shoulder, and reached to warm Aerin’s fingers up with her other hand.

  After a moment, a little golden haired figure appeared in the doorway.

  ‘You should be…oh, never mind,’ Morwen sighed. ‘Come give Auntie Aerin a hug.’

  Niënor, four years old and with her father’s blue eyes, broke into a grin and ran over.

*****

  Too soon, Aerin had to leave. Morwen fussed over the cold, said they’d set up a mid-way meeting point if she was really going to keep being stupid, and told her to be careful. Niënor kissed her cheek.

  Too soon she was walking back towards the dark shapes of buildings in the distance (this journey on a moonless night would be ridiculously dangerous). Every time she had to walk back, it was harder. So far she hadn’t let Morwen and Niënor see her cry.

  Behind her was the last place which felt like home.


End file.
